Culligan jumped out of the front seat to open the rear door for Barrett. As always, he wore a suit right off the rack. He was making some serious money here at CDMI, but he still dressed like a GS-13. Barrett liked that about him.

“Got the video?” he asked as he settled into the back.

“Got it.”

The city complex was only a few blocks away. They could have walked there if the sidewalks weren’t land-mined with patches of ice and sooty slush. Lester pulled over at the entrance to City Hall, then carefully backed up and edged in beside a dry stretch of pavement. “Stay close,” Culligan told him as he and Barrett got out. Lester nodded, eyes straight ahead.

The metal detector was already in place in this building, along with a conveyor belt for their briefcases. They passed into the elevator bank and rode up two floors to the Criminal Investigation Division. The space was drab and utilitarian, cinder-block walls and industrial carpeting all in the same dull gray. CDMI paid a monumental sum in taxes to the city, but the lion’s share must have been skimmed off to line somebody’s pockets; they sure weren’t spending it on office decor.

Culligan knew his way around. He spoke their names to the cop behind a glass window, passed through their business cards, and asked to see the detectives handling the Carter-Jones homicide. After a phone call and a long delay that had Barrett tapping his foot with impatience, the cop buzzed them through.

A little fireplug of a woman bustled up to greet them. She was fifty-plus, with permed hair dyed an unnatural shade of red. “Linda Mayes, police assistant,” she said in an officious tone. “Detectives Riley and Cruz are busy just now, but if you want to wait—”

“We’ll wait,” Culligan said.

“For a bit,” Barrett clarified.

She showed them into a room marked Interview B. After she left, Barrett pointed to the mirror on the wall. “Is that what I think it is?”

Culligan nodded and pointed to the camera above it. They took their seats and took out their phones and didn’t speak another word to each other.

In fifteen minutes, the detectives came in. They were the same pair who’d visited Elliott Gutman last night, which meant they must have been racking up some serious overtime. Culligan shook their hands and told them his name and title, and Barrett started to do the same.

“We met already, Mr. Barrett,” Detective Riley said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Funny you didn’t mention then that you were Ms. Carter-Jones’s boss. Family friend is all you said.”

Barrett was unfazed by the dig and mildly amused by the snub of his handshake. “That’s because work didn’t even cross my mind at the time. Lucy wasn’t only a colleague; she was a dear friend. This tragedy really hit hard.”

“Of course.” Riley made a sad face. “How long had she been depressed?”

Barrett suppressed a laugh at the old cop’s feeble attempt to trip him up. “It wasn’t suicide,” he said. “Shay Lambert killed her. And we can prove it. Gentlemen, please.” He waved at the chairs opposite him. “Have a seat.”